Black Pine Creek

by David Haynes

  He didn’t even pause before he stepped inside the container. He heard Mercer’s heavy footsteps behind him.

  “What’s going on?”

  Draper rummaged along the shelves, handing ropes, cables and anything else he thought might be useful to Mercer.

  “You remember that truck, the bright yellow one that Lewis’s guy saw? It came off the road and slid down the bank. I can’t get down there to see if anyone’s injured.”

  They walked out of the container and in the next breath Mercer was on the walkie-talkie to Flynn.

  “On his way,” Mercer said and then stopped. “Is it Burgess?”

  Draper shrugged. “Could be, I don’t know.”

  They walked back to Draper’s truck. The engine was still running.

  *

  Draper pulled in where he had been forced to stop earlier. He walked across the track to the gap in the trees, squatted down and pointed.

  “Can you see it?” he asked.

  Mercer knelt and looked. “Long way down.”

  “Forty, fifty feet, I reckon.”

  “And some. Is it Burgess’s truck? That one’s hard to miss.”

  “I saw it in Haines but I couldn’t tell you what color it was. Light, that’s all I can say.” He put his hand inside his pocket and withdrew the cigar. He passed it to Mercer like he was handing him a snake’s head.

  “I found this on the claim.”

  “You think he’s been up there?”

  “If this is his truck then it looks likely.”

  Mercer took a moment to work it through. “So maybe Vinson missed him.”

  Draper nodded. “Possible. Do you think Burgess would’ve just turned around without banging on all the campers? Or walking the whole of Black Pine? I wouldn’t if it belonged to me. I’d stay and find out why nobody was working.”

  “So that leaves you with what?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying not to think too hard about it. Vinson’s lying?”

  “And if he is? Say he’s met up with Burgess and kept it on the quiet. Then what?”

  Draper stood up. “Ever think you’ve made a massive mistake?” There were a lot of answers to that question but none of that played out very well in his head. He ignored it.

  “Every time I woke up in a strange bed.”

  “Come on, Ray. This has got all the right ingredients for a disaster. I shouldn’t have tried to come back. I just wanted to try and put things right. In my own mind.”

  “Listen, you can’t second-guess yourself, you know that.” He pointed down the bank. “Could be anyone’s truck down there.” He stood up and gave Draper the cigar butt. “And this could belong to anyone who’s worked the claim in the last ten years. Whatever this is, I won’t let you handle it on your own.”

  Draper smiled at Mercer. “Thanks. I’m probably just being what Puckett would call a pussy.”

  “Think positive. That could be an inspector from Fisheries trapped down there. We rescue him and he lets us off all the violations we’re chalking up.”

  “We haven’t got any violations.”

  “If you say so.” Mercer turned and looked up the road. “Flynn’s here. I’ll get the rope.” He walked across the track to the truck and started dragging ropes and cables out.

  Draper kept his eyes on the truck, the creek splashing over its front end. He hoped Mercer was right. He didn’t think he was, though. His gut told him that was Burgess’s truck down there, in the same way as he knew the cigar also belonged to Burgess. He had a bad feeling about it all, a very bad feeling. A part of him wanted to drive away, drive into the middle of nowhere and sit it out for another two years.

  But he wouldn’t do that again. Running away didn’t work.

  Flynn pulled in next to Draper and climbed out. “X marks the spot, huh?” He peered down the bank. “Won’t be able to drag it back up but we can get you down to it. You could tie onto one of the trees?”

  “I’d rather have an excavator holding onto me, besides it’s steep and I’m going to need help getting back up. I’m not twenty any more.”

  “You couldn’t do that even if you were twenty.” Mercer threw a long length of blue nylon rope at him. It felt brand new. “No harnesses so you’re stuck with an old-fashioned knot.”

  Draper passed it around his waist. “What about the cable?”

  “Not long enough. We’ll secure it up here and if there’s anyone down there, we’ll haul you and them back up with the excavator. Okay?”

  Draper nodded and watched Flynn and Mercer secure the rope around the excavator teeth. Flynn raised the bucket so the rope would be unable to slip off.

  The first few steps were simple. The gradient was steep but the earth was compacted and heavy. However, as he moved away from the top of the bank and entrusted his weight to the rope, the earth changed and became a loose carpet of pine needles. The sky disappeared completely under the thick canopy. What little warmth had been in the late-fall day was vanquished by the shade. The pine scent was heavy, and all around him creatures stirred, moving away from the invader.

  Flynn kept the rope taut, using all his experience to inch the bucket and arm upwards.

  Draper risked a look over his shoulder as a section of bank grew steeper, almost dropping away entirely. He was over halfway down.

  “Okay?” Mercer shouted down.

  “Never better!” he shouted back, not willing to risk taking a hand off the rope. He edged down farther until the creek was the only sound he could hear. Down here it rattled against the truck, shaking the vehicle, trying to pull it away from its temporary moorings.

  As he reached the bottom, he tried to glance across toward the driver’s window. He was at the wrong angle, the truck was too far forward, and the only light limped down in a thick but pale shaft that fell across the hood and the creek. Across the other side of the river, the bank rose similarly steeply. It made for a very narrow valley.

  He put his feet on level ground, undid the rope and shouted up to Mercer. “I’m down!” He put his thumb up to reinforce the message.

  The front of the truck had slid further into the creek in the last two hours. The front wheels were now completely submerged, and hissing brown water fizzed beneath the wheel arches. Draper would be getting wet feet if he wanted to get inside.

  He stepped forward and felt the icy sting of mountain water lick his toes. The door handle was about a foot in front of him and the water covered the bottom half-foot of the door. He reached out and tugged at it, fighting against the creek. It didn’t budge. Maybe someone had locked it and taken the keys with them. That was good news at least. He moved deeper into the water. It was just below his knees now but he needed to get a good look inside. He didn’t want to come all the way down here and leave any questions unanswered.

  The truck shifted enough to twist the door handle out of his grip. It created a sense of urgency which, coupled with the icy water, gave him a sudden uncomfortable feeling in the bladder.

  “Careful!” Mercer’s voice seemed a million miles away.

  Water splashed on his cheeks and into his mouth. The metallic taste of the creek was something he was used to, but it tasted much stronger here. It was almost chemical tasting. He took a firm hold of the handle, pulling himself forward. The truck creaked and groaned in warning. He ignored it, standing in front of the driver’s window. The glass was smoked but it was clear the cab was empty. He could see a Chicago Bears key-chain hanging from the ignition. Was Burgess a Bears fan?

  He pulled the door, forcing it against the flow of the creek. He had to brace himself to move it. He was immediately hit by the strong smell of cigar smoke. The ashtray had four butts in. He recognized the label immediately – a ‘V’ and an ‘A’ interlinked with ‘Nicaragua’ printed beneath. It was the same label as the cigar butt in his pocket.

  The last shift had moved the truck forward more than a foot. The river wasn’t coming into the cab yet but it wouldn’t be long. He clambered up and leaned across
to the glove box, cursing when he realized he wouldn’t be able to reach it without climbing inside. He didn’t like the idea of getting washed downstream in the truck but the cab was empty, there were no identification documents. He needed something more.

  He pulled himself inside, the door easing shut behind him. He pulled down the sun-visors – nothing. If this was Dave Burgess’s truck, the glove box would be crammed full, he was sure.

  He leaned over and clicked it open. The door fell down spilling a whole pile of papers into the foot-well. Draper ignored them and rifled through the rest of the contents. Candy bars, wrappers, a pair of sunglasses and something else.

  It looked like a roll of copied land deeds and contracts. He could see official stamps through the paper.

  The truck lurched forward again, jarring him against the dash. The creek was nearly up to the windshield now, and below he could feel loose rocks moving and grinding against the chassis.

  The roll of papers were secured with a black shoelace. No expense spared there. That matched Burgess too. Always looking to make money. He undid the lace, the roll springing open. Several deeds flipped out and rolled onto the floor. There must have been thirty or forty deeds. That would make Dave Burgess a very rich man.

  He started to read the top copy when the truck groaned and squealed, sliding a little to the left this time. The bank was collapsing beneath him. He had to get out now. He righted himself and pushed against the door. It was even harder this time. The water level had gone up and was forcing the door against him.

  His mouth felt dry as water lapped up the windscreen. Any moment now, he thought, clambering across into the passenger seat. The water was swirling around the door, not crashing into it. He leaned against it and to his relief the door eased open, allowing him to slide out. It was waist deep and the cold took his breath away. He glanced up the bank and saw Mercer waving frantically. He could see his mouth moving too but the creek was deafening. It seemed angry by his and the truck’s intrusion.

  He waded over to the bank, holding the roll above his head. Behind him, the truck creaked again and made a sound like twisting metal. He didn’t look back. As soon as he had both feet on dry land, he unrolled the papers and scanned the top copy.

  “Dave Burgess (buyer) and James McElroy (vendor) hereby agree as follows...” He read it aloud and then turned to the next one. “Dave Burgess...” He used his finger to flick through the first dozen. They were all the same. They were land sale contracts across the state and country. All the land belonged to Dave Burgess. The truck belonged to Burgess too. The bad feeling that had been bubbling away in his gut now rose to the boil. Where was he?

  He looked up and down the bank, left and right. The keys were still in the ignition and there was no sign of trauma inside the cab. Coming down that far wouldn’t necessarily have meant serious injury, especially if the truck had managed to avoid any of the larger trees, but it would have been a shock to the system with some pretty serious bruises to match. Burgess could have wandered off looking for help, but they weren’t exactly in the city here. It would take him a day to reach Black Pine Creek and maybe half a day down to Lewis’s claim. All the way on foot and all the way through thick forest for a man who didn’t look like he’d taken any exercise in thirty years.

  He slid the documents down the back of his jeans and tied the rope on again. Mercer made some signals to Flynn and a second later the excavator rumbled into life. Flynn took in the slack, pulling Draper back to the top. Nevertheless it was a difficult climb, and after a dozen steps his thighs and calves burned. He was forced to take a breather.

  As he stopped there was a deafening crack, followed by a high-pitched wail behind him. He knew what it was. Burgess’s truck had finally ceded to the creek. He glanced over his shoulder, watching the vehicle slide quickly into the water. The yellow paintwork flashed bright in the pale light a moment before it crashed into a submerged rock and flipped through ninety degrees. He heard the sound of smashing glass and twisting steel as the truck was tossed about in the current like a rag doll.

  The power was astounding. And frightening.

  He pulled himself up the bank, his shoulders raging at a workout they were unused to. He was embarrassed at his lack of fitness. Two years of doing no kind of physical work had left his previously strong body a disappointing imitation of its former self.

  Mercer offered him a hand and hauled him up the last two feet. “Tired?” he asked.

  Draper tried not to show or sound it but he knew it was written all over his face. It couldn’t have been more than forty degrees but his shirt was wet under his sweatshirt and his brow, he knew, was glistening with sweat.

  He ignored the question and handed the documents to Draper. “Definitely Burgess’s truck. No sign of him but the keys were in.”

  Flynn looked over Mercer’s shoulder. “Any blood down there?”

  Draper shook his head. “Truck looks okay although I couldn’t see the front end. It was underwater.”

  Mercer studied the papers and then lifted his head. “Could be he wandered off looking for help. I’ll call the cops and they can tell whoever they need to tell as well.”

  “His brand of cigars in the ashtray too,” Draper said, reinforcing his point. “Same as the one I found at Black Pine.”

  Mercer nodded. “You might be right then.”

  Draper rotated his shoulders.

  “Right?” Flynn asked. “Right about what?”

  Draper looked at Mercer. He nodded in response.

  “It looks like Burgess was up on the claim, the day we were in Chicken.”

  “So what? Flynn asked.

  “Well, when I asked Mike, he said not. The guy on the claim down there told us he saw this truck driving up to Black Pine the same day and I found this cigar, Burgess’s brand, a few days later. He was there but Mike didn’t want me to know.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know either?” Flynn reasoned.

  “I don’t think so. Burgess wouldn’t have left until he’d emptied all of our campers, all of the vehicles, buildings and checked the creek. He would want to know why we weren’t mining. Especially since he’d tried to call me.”

  Flynn grimaced. “You think he’s up to something?” He turned to Mercer. “Think he’s Burgess’s man? Keeping track of us?”

  “No,” replied Mercer. “It would make a lot of sense in a lot of ways but Vinson was working with us at Johnson’s. No way either him or Burgess could’ve predicted the resurrection of Scott Draper.”

  “So what’re you gonna do?” Flynn asked.

  “I don’t know yet.” Draper wiped a hand over his unshaven chin. “I want to be sure I’m not looking for trouble where there isn’t any.” He looked at them in turn. “I don’t want to do anything rash.”

  And he didn’t. The last thing he wanted to do was to shoot his mouth off and for things to turn sour. He had to be cautious while there was still the opportunity to be just that. If his bad feelings were confirmed then the time would come for a different approach.

  “Just keep this between the three of us for now. Okay?”

  Both Mercer and Flynn nodded. He knew they wouldn’t say anything else on the matter.

  “Now, who wants to call the police and report this? I’m not sure they’ll want to hear from me about a missing person again.”

  23

  When the state troopers arrived at the claim the following day, the truck had long gone. Mercer had followed it downstream for a while but the creek snaked through hidden parts of the valley that were completely inaccessible. It was down there somewhere but they weren’t going to find it anytime soon. Draper had driven down to Lewis’s claim and told him about the truck too. He’d asked him to keep an eye out for Burgess should he stumble out of the wilderness, but other than that there wasn’t much he could do.

  He was relieved to see the two troopers weren’t the same ones who had come on the first day of their season. He told them where the truck had been and gave them Burge
ss’s cell number. He didn’t think Burgess was married but he was only speculating. However, he did give them the address for Burgess’s office, such as it was, in Haines.

  The troopers walked away and climbed back into their pickup. He’d told the rest of the crew that he found Burgess’s truck crashed off the road, partially submerged in the creek and nothing more. He didn’t mention the cigar to anyone, and definitely not to Vinson.

  Vinson had been utterly unreadable when he’d spoken about Burgess’s truck. Draper had intentionally not looked at him but asked Mercer to check for a reaction. There had been nothing, Mercer said later. It was almost as if he were trying not to give anything away.

  Draper still wondered whether he was being paranoid about Vinson. There was a part of him that wanted to challenge Vinson directly, and maybe three years ago that’s exactly what he would have done. But he was afraid. Frightened that whatever he said would end badly. So many times after Delta Junction he’d questioned his mentality, his moral compass. How easy had it been, in the end, to kill two men? Was there something deeper down inside him, a beast waiting to come out? A hulk? He didn’t want to test it.

  There was also a part of him that just wanted to get through the rest of the season and walk away. Finish whatever it was they were doing and drive into the sunset, never to look upon a mining claim again. His relationship with Meg was far from ideal but it was improving, albeit slowly and at her pace. Whether or not he ever worked on a gold mine again wouldn’t be the determining factor in how his daughter thought of him or how their relationship progressed.

  He still had a duty to everyone at Black Pine Creek, though. He owed them for coming to work here and he owed Mercer more than any of them. If he could send them all home with something lining their pockets then it would be worth it. He’d be broke but maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Without a penny to his name, the temptation to do this again would be gone. Gone for good.